The chase
by Winniethepoowho
Summary: Being on the run sucks. But do you want to know what sucks even more? Falling in love. Especially when it happens to be with the totally wrong person. But sometimes that happens. And you wanna know what? There is absolutely, positively, nothing you can do about it. Because trust me I've tried. It's just one thing you can't run away from.


It is a still noise. It creeps into my ears like a whisper. It is a hum. Steady. Continuous. I almost forget its presence until it takes a sharp inhale. And just like that I'm on my feet. My eyes do a three sixty, darting all over the pitch black room. Their is nothing but air, and yet my muscles are frozen, my fists clenched so hard I wouldn't be surprised if I drew blood.

It's low. It's quiet. But it's _there_.

I sit back down. I can't let it know that I know that it's watching me. The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up. I try to make my appearance seem relaxed. I unclench my fingers one by one, hoping it doesn't look as unnatural as it feels, and put my elbow on the small table in front of me. Then I force my head to rest on my palm, feeling like a statue. I'm so tense that it hurts.

My mind races. I imagine the whole room in daylight. Three exits. Two doors. One window. The window's the closest. But it's also the most risky. If I were to take the window I would have to smash right through it. I haven't got it to open in weeks, and I'm strong. The glass will shatter, I'll definitely get a few scrapes, but probably not deep enough to do any harm. The window it is.

The breathing deepens. It has a low ring to it. The same low ring that I have been hearing for years. We're old friends. I almost got worried, for a while he left me alone. It's been three months since his quite breathing has made an appearance. At the moment it is coming from my left, nine o'clock. Usually he tends to shy to my right. Odd. maybe he's trying to spice things up a bit today? I don't know, but I don't really care either. All I care about is what's in front of me; the window. Twelve o'clock. I can make it. I tense even more, feeling the room tense with me, as well as my predator. He's ready. I imagine myself as him. Watching his prey, a seventeen year old girl with sharp features. Seeing her chest rise and fall, rise and fall. _She's ready_, I bet he thinks. _She's ready_.

He'll pounce the moment he sees me jump. He is simply waiting for my permission. What a gentlemen. To bad I'm not a lady. Or at least I don't fight like one. But he doesn't either, I know his kind. Cunning and strong. Stealthy and quick. He is on a hunt. A hunt that he enjoys tremendously. I can almost feel his smile digging a hole in my side. I will not look. I will not dare look. I remember as a child my mother always told me to not look an angry dog in the eyes. It's an invitation. And I am not hosting a party of slaughter and death.

I have a rule. I don't count down my remaining seconds. I don't let myself treasure the last few moments of peace. I do not. Never, ever, ever. That would give the enemy an advantage. My heart beat would quicken, alarming my clever predator. No. I do not count down. Which is why I am on my feet, dancing away from his outstretched arms. I even surprise myself. Who knew I would spring so early? But I guess I should have guessed. I am fast. Speed has always been my friend.

And their it is, the window. Before I get too close I do a forwards flip mid-air tucking my knees into my chest. I get a few seconds of peace. It's almost like I'm flying, laying in a cloud of air. But then reality pulls me back in and I am forced to kick my legs out, shattering the window, and successfully reaching my destination. Outside. The breezy, easy, lovable outdoors that are full of laughter and summertime songs. But all of that is forgotten. In fact, everything is forgotten, because that is simply what happens when you are on a chase and you are not quite the chaser. Funny how that works, huh? Funny how my role always tends to be the exact same. Funny how I always get to play the chasie.

I run. And I run. And I run. I dodge trees, and hop over branches. Spring over twigs and piles of leaves, until finally, finally my throat begins to protest. I have no water, and the gaining footsteps behind me tell me I cannot stop, so I continue to run. And run I do. I feel speed. It runs through my fingers and my toes, and every single spring in my body. I am speed. Whenever he accelerates, I accelerate. Whenever he slows, I slow. It's a game I like to play. He's like my shadow. Always so close, but so far away. I'm a tease really; an illusion. To him it probably seems as though I am loosing because I am so close, but no, I am impossible to catch.

We've played this game before. So far, he has not managed to win. I can only imagine his frustration. It's usually right around here when he starts to slow, almost to a brisk walk, giving up his prize. Which is also about the same time I claim my prize and call it quits. Although our prizes are not quite the same. Mine is freedom. The never ending laughter of freedom. Its the only thing that I refuse to let go.

Sure enough, he begins to slow, practically handing me my prize on a silver platter. I smile to myself and take off, running to who knows where.

And honestly? It doesn't really matter. As long as its away from him. If only for a little while. Because guess what. He'll be back. He'll find me again no matter where I go. Because he _always_ does, and he _always_ will. But at this exact moment, this moment where I have won once again, it really doesn't matter.

And with that I leave with high hopes.


End file.
